Chapter 90

Chapter 90
The network hub is a cage of lights and nerves. Racks of servers blink in the dark like the eyes of a thousand spiders, their wiring snaking across the floor in tangled veins. The only sound is the whine of dying fans and the low, predatory echo of Dante’s footsteps as he stalks through the maze.
Marcus is ahead, sweat-slick and wild-eyed, moving with the frantic desperation of a lab rat that's realized the maze has no exit. His expensive loafers squeak against the polished floor as he sprints for the emergency hatch at the far end, its red exit sign casting a bloody glow across his features. Every few paces he glances over his shoulder, pupils dilated with terror, hoping for a miracle that doesn't exist in this world. There is none. Dante blocks the route, six-foot-three of coiled muscle and cold fury, arms crossed over his chest where the outline of his shoulder holster creates a darker shadow against his black suit. His face might as well be carved from marble—beautiful, expressionless, and utterly merciless in the half-light.
Luca enters from the other side, his six-foot-four frame blocking the emergency exit sign's glow. He rolls his neck with a crack that echoes off the server racks, then flexes his tattooed hands until the knuckles pop white against olive skin. His usual playboy smirk is nowhere to be found—replaced by a jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumps beneath the three-day stubble. The diamond stud in his ear catches the blue light of the servers, cold as his eyes. Tonight, there are no jokes, no winks, no theatrical threats. Tonight, everything is real.

Bell lags behind them, one hand pressed against the small of her back where pain radiates in dull waves. Her breath comes in shallow pulls, heartbeat jagged but determined beneath the silk blouse now damp with sweat at the collar. She watches from the shadows, ruby-lacquered nails digging into her palm, waiting for the right moment. Behind her eyes, calculations unfold like a chessboard—who will side with Marcus, which captains might waver, how many bodies will need to disappear by morning. The political cost of what comes next tallies itself in her mind: three council seats, possibly the dockworkers' loyalty, certainly the commissioner's monthly payment schedule.

Marcus skids to a stop, cornered, eyes wide and wild. “You don’t have to do this,” he pleads. “This isn’t who we are.”

Dante’s reply is a dead thing. “You made it this way.”

Luca adds, “Don’t make it harder than it has to be.”

Marcus glances from one to the other, his face twisting between desperation and something like pity. "It's her, isn't it?" His eyes search theirs for a flicker of doubt. "We used to talk about legacy. About honor." He swallows hard, as if the words taste bitter. "Now look at you both—following her around like..." He hesitates, the insult dying on his lips as he sees something in their expressions that makes him falter. "Christ. You don't even know which one of you is the father, do you?"

Bell steps forward, one hand on the wall for balance, the other hovering protectively over her abdomen. "We are a family, Marcus." Her voice wavers between conviction and uncertainty. "That was always the point... wasn't it?"

Dante's hands curl into fists, then unclench, then curl again. His jaw works as if chewing on words he can't quite swallow. A muscle in his cheek twitches—the same one that jumped when his father died.

Luca's voice cracks, just slightly. "You betrayed us, Marcus. After everything." He swallows, eyes flickering between rage and something that might be grief. "You could have come to her. To me."

Marcus spits at the floor, his voice cracking between rage and something like grief. "I came to you first, Dante. Remember? When I saw what was happening." His eyes flicker to Bell, then back to the twins. "We grew up together. Shared everything." His hands tremble, caught between reaching out and forming fists. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I'm wrong. But the Romanos built this city on blood and brotherhood, not... whatever this is becoming."

Bell’s voice is flat, final. “You’re done, Marcus.”

She doesn’t even have to signal. Dante moves first, seizing Marcus by the collar and pinning him against the nearest server rack. The violence is quick, efficient—no grandstanding, just the cold machinery of survival. Luca closes in, grabs Marcus’s wrists, twisting until the bones threaten to snap. Marcus howls, but the sound is swallowed by the roar of the backup generators finally coming back to life.

Security arrives, hands already gloved. They drag Marcus away, his curses trailing behind like an old, ugly song. Bell watches, her face unreadable, her hands shaking only after he’s gone.

Dante turns to her, worry cutting through the usual armor. “Are you all right?”

Bell nods, then wobbles. “I just need a minute.”

Luca is at her side instantly, one hand on her back, the other steadying her arm. “We’ve got you.”

She takes a deep breath, lets the air settle in her lungs. “I’m fine.”

They stand in the middle of the humming, blinking heart of their empire, the three of them alone for the first time all night. The old order is dead. What comes next will be written by their hands, or not at all.

Bell straightens, looks at both of them. “No more rats,” she says.

Dante grins, wolf-sharp. “No more rats.”

Luca kisses her temple, gentle for once. “Only us.”

They leave the server room together, the hum of new power rising behind them, and for the first time in hours, Bell feels the future is possible.

The light at the end of the corridor is warm, golden, alive.

They walk toward it, unbreakable.